


The Mayfly

by Lagerstatte



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Blood and Gore, Canonical Character Death, Degloving, Episode Ignis Verse 2, Healing Magic, M/M, Skinning, Torture, Unreliable Narrator, Vivisection, Whump, rapist pov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-04
Updated: 2020-03-04
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:02:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22901404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lagerstatte/pseuds/Lagerstatte
Summary: Ardyn waits for his death in the World of Ruin.Absurdly, the fondness is back. He likes Ignis, Ardyn decides. It’s rare anyone has the ability to soothe his anger, and Ignis has several other things going for him besides. He likes raping Ignis, and keeping him, and knowing they’re working together to bring about the prophecy — not that Ignis knows what, exactly, will happen from it, that Noctis will die because of it. His ignorance makes him even sweeter.
Relationships: Ardyn Izunia/Ignis Scientia
Comments: 9
Kudos: 45
Collections: Ignis whump February exchange





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Melokho](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Melokho/gifts).



> HAPPY FEBRUARY! I hope you enjoy this fic :D

Ardyn had once been royalty, born and bred palace stock. Ignis Scientia is titled nobility and there are all sorts of formalities and protocol for that, but Ardyn had also been usurped from his throne two thousand years ago, disowned from royalty, so his court manners are forgivably rusty. He calls Scientia _dear Ignis_ and touches his arms and back when passing close enough. He would call him _Iggy_ , but Ignis is the name sweet young Noctis prefers, so Ignis it is.

Ignis looks only mildly put out by the endearments, and stoic about the touching — at least after he became more confident it was only touch — but then he is a good actor. But anyway, it’s not like Ardyn can stop after getting no reaction, or it’ll be clear he only did it for a reaction.

He knows exactly what Ignis is doing, which is particularly beautiful, because Ignis himself doesn’t know what he’s doing. Ignis thinks he’s trying to help Noctis fulfil the prophecy, and yet he doesn’t know the prophecy, the truth, the real cause of what’s happening and what he’s trying to do — which is to kill his beloved prince as well as Ardyn, the Accursed.

Even more wonderful, it’s clear it’s Ardyn himself that Ignis is sniffing around for, despite acting coy and retreating when Ardyn gets too close. He flits between the libraries and roots around in council, military, and royal offices, barricading himself in a new place every night — as it were — to sleep. He still knows Ardyn is the keystone in this, and he’s not leaving no matter how close Ardyn gets.

Ardyn wants to get his hands on him. One would think two thousand years would have taught him patience, and it had, to an extent. But now he can feel the impending deadline, death so close he can taste it. He _wants_ it, his death, like it’s a thing right in front of him, and all he needs is to reach out and take it.

He can’t, or not yet, anyway. He needs darling Noctis for that.

Ignis, on the other hand—

Within reach already, just needing to be caught, pinned down, pulled apart. He wants to vivisect him, awake and screaming. He wants to roll him under his palm in the dirt, like a kitten, and break every one of his bones.

His skin prickles when he watches Ignis. He’d played with Verstael and a few others, but he’d been all but dead, then. Now his body is waking from dormancy, cracking out of its shell, a mayfly emerging from the filth at the bottom of the pond where it’s lived for years. He’s hatching, and then he’ll die, like the mayflies do.

And, like a mayfly, he wants. He survived the pond muck, crawled out into darkness, and now he _wants_.

He decides, after a week or so of Ignis being present in the Citadel, that it’s time he took.

He corners Ignis by the painting of the prophecy, a thing made hideous by not just its grossly contrived mysticism, but its infuriatingly hack craftsmanship. Ardyn despises the thing. He would have destroyed it long ago, except the suspicion it will in some way be necessary later on.

Perhaps that suspicion is going to come true. Ignis is examining the painting like he’s reading an unclear instruction manual, so intently he doesn’t even react to Ardyn coming up behind him. His coyness is growing old for the both of them, then.

He startles badly when Ardyn puts his hands on his shoulders, though he doesn’t move away. Under Ardyn’s grip he’s wound tight, so tense he’s almost trembling with it. He’s a hare, crouched in hiding, but ready to spring up and run. Not that he can run; there’s nowhere to escape to that Ardyn can’t get to faster. Run him down. Drag him down. He’ll tear him apart like poorly trained dogs tear apart screaming hares.

‘Well?’ Ardyn says, leaning in close. Ignis must be here because of Noctis, but really, that means he’s here because of Ardyn. Noctis’ only role on Eos is to kill Ardyn; the gods created him for Ardyn. Ignis only exists for Noctis, and therefore for Ardyn, second-hand. He exists purely to help Ardyn self-destruct, to peel away his larval shell and hatch into a delicate mayfly. It’s an immensely pleasing thought; Ardyn will have to be careful not to break him.

‘I was examining the painting,’ Ignis says, testing out the waters. It’s sweet how wary he is.

‘Well, what do you see?’

Ignis doesn’t answer. Is he going to answer? Ardyn waits, and the longer he waits the more he wants to squeeze the answer from him, tug it out like teeth. He doesn’t. He needs to be patient.

His fingers tighten, and Ignis makes a noise, twisting a little in Ardyn’s grip. His face has gone pale. Perhaps Ardyn is squeezing too tight. He loosens his grip and Ignis shudders; it’s cold in Insomnia, and Ardyn can feel the heat of his body.

‘Is there something I ought to be seeing?’ Ignis says, which isn’t up to his usual standard, and that annoys Ardyn. He lets go and steps back, though not without running his hands firmly down Ignis’ arms.

‘I shall leave that up to you,’ he says, and then leaves to destroy another few rooms, apartments of Citadel nobodies, no doubt long dead.

And if not, he’ll find and kill them tonight.

He tracks down Ignis again some time later, this time in Regis’ personal library. Curiosity gets the better of him, so he pauses time for a moment to lean over Ignis’ shoulder and see just what he’s reading. Ah. An art book, opened to the page of the prophetic painting. How predictable.

Predicable, but that doesn’t have to be a bad thing. It means Ardyn had been right when he’d thought it was significant, and he does like being right. He lets time flow again, and when Ignis reacts poorly, seizing a weapon, he steps back.

‘Come, now,’ he says, and he spreads his open hands. ‘Surely we’re past such things, my dear?’

Ignis’ eyes narrow. He lowers his daggers, but doesn’t dismiss them. An unsubtle statement; Ardyn smiles.

‘That is interesting reading material,’ he says, because it’s clear Ignis is wanting to hold his cards close to his chest, inasmuch as that’s possible when he’s inside Ardyn’s domain. Ardyn will have to tease it out of him — not, of course, that it’s important. After all, Ignis doesn’t know even now that he’s fighting to kill Noctis. He has no idea he’s playing the game for Ardyn, not against him.

‘Quite,’ Ignis says. Ardyn wants to know what he’s thinking — what calculations is he making, what judgements is he coming to? If he could break open Ignis’ head, spread his brain out on the floor like they used to do in sacrificial divination — well, he could, of course, but it wouldn’t tell him anything. The gods hadn’t guided him back when he’d been sacred. Now they don’t care even enough to smite him.

He’s detritus, but he’s fit himself in the right place and now he’s clogging the river, flooding the banks, ruining everything for everyone. 

And Ignis — well, Ignis doesn’t fit in this particular metaphor. A pity, but the world is a limited place, after all.

‘Do you suppose it has something to do with the prophecy about the King of Light?’ Ardyn asks, and he can’t even enjoy Ignis’ reaction because he’s overcome with a surge of rage, a dog with rabies, a daemon. _King of Light._ He hates, he _hates_ , and he wants the whole world to suffer and suffer and die.

He’s bearing down on Ignis, and he lets Ignis’ knives stab through him as he knocks them both to the floor. The rage inside him bubbles over, uncontrollable, blinding him with white-hot fury. He heals, then he’s pushing his magic on Ignis like smothering a baby. He doesn’t care about anything he’d cared for — he can no longer wait to tease Ignis gently apart. He’s going to destroy him, ruin him, and Ignis is screaming and struggling beneath him as he seizes Ignis’ head and breaks it open on the floor. He can feel Ignis’ skull bend and break, his skin rupture, blood and clear fluid spray out, hot where it gets on his hands. He grinds Ignis’ head down, rolling it like cracking the shell of a hardboiled egg, and even Ignis’ frenzied, dying struggles do nothing to make him hate less. He is only partially aware that he’s snarling, bared teeth and demonic.

He comes to his senses — more or less — before Ignis is dead, if admittedly close to it, only twitching and gasping wetly. He certainly doesn’t struggle when Ardyn bends and kisses him, regretting losing control and then made angry all over again by the regret. There’s large amounts of blood in Ignis’ mouth and his tongue is limp, dangerously close to slipping back down his throat and choking him. He probably doesn’t even register the kiss at all. Ardyn can’t decide if that’s a pity or not as he undresses him, leaving his shirt on but undoing his belt, tugging down his trousers and undergarments.

It’s hard to tell how long Ardyn has been hard for. His heart is pounding, but that’s just the rage, and it’s mostly calm by the time he’s done. Ignis’ body is a limp, ready masturbation tool, easy to fuck into, pleasing enough, but Ardyn regrets it. This had been the first time; he should have raped Ignis properly. He should have taken his time, enjoyed it, rather than wasting it on a limp, boring body and rage-adrenaline. He barely enjoyed it, barely even remembers it. Even the orgasm had been disappointing: weak, insipid, and frustrating for its lost potential.

Rage flickers back on the heels of frustration, but Ardyn pushes it back. As much as he wants to leave Ignis to decay on the floor, he most likely needs him alive. And he can still rape him later, even if it won’t be as good as this should have been.

He regrets everything. Hatching and dying cannot come soon enough.

Healing Ignis costs little effort, for all that Ignis’ heart has stopped, his brain not just ruptured but largely dead. He can do what he wants with Ignis and his body, in either life or death, and there’s nothing anyone or anything can do to stop him. Only the gods could, and they won’t lift a finger.

Cloaked from sight, Ardyn watches Ignis crawl up to his hands and knees, then to his feet. He corrects his clothing, and would look perfectly calm if not for the way he fumbles with the book he’d been reading, and the numb look in his eyes, stretched out over his face. Does he remember what had happened? Will he leave, now? He better not.

Ignis flees the room, but only to the Crownsguard dorms. He doesn’t leave the Citadel.


	2. Chapter 2

Ignis plays hard to get for a while after their encounter in Regis’ office, and Ardyn lets him. He has the time, and Ignis isn’t leaving. It had occurred to Ardyn that should Ignis leave, he’s not sure how he would drag him back — or indeed the best way to drag him back, since the two would not be the same. He knows only that Ignis would have to return, one way or another.

Ignis is, after all, working for him. They’re playing for the same team, whether he knows it or not.

It’s a pleasing thought, having Ignis on his side. Busy as a bee, loyal to the cause.

On his side maybe, but not by his side. Should he be? It would be nice, but then, it’s not as if nice things come often to Ardyn, the Accursed. He most certainly doesn’t deserve them. Sometimes he takes them, like with Verstael, but… Ignis? Ignis is vital, somehow, he’s sure, along with Noctis’ two other retainers. That damned painting.

It’s conflicting, and while he’s almost absolutely sure what he needs to do, and what doesn’t matter, there’s too much at stake for it to go wrong. It’s a prophecy, written by the gods, yet who can rely on the gods to do anything correctly? No, it needs to be guaranteed from all sides, not least Ardyn’s. He can’t afford to get anything wrong.

He wants. His want is an instinct, animal. Mayflies crawl up out of their fetid life in the water to hatch. Other animals cling to life even past their prime, but mayflies go eagerly to their deaths. Death is their prime, their optimum. It’s in their nature.

Death, yes, but he wants Ignis, too. He is, after all, rather more advanced than a mayfly. Alone, waiting in agony for Ignis to get over his shyness, Ardyn wants — flesh and bone under his fingers, the heat from something living, movement. A response, a voice, someone — finally, _finally_ — on his side. He feels insane with impatience, though for what, exactly, he’s not sure; when he tries to imagine how his next encounter with Ignis will go, he comes up empty handed. Or rather, his hands are overflowing with ideas, but he cannot decide which is the one he’ll pick.

So many ideas. He wants to torment Ignis, because he hates as much as wants. How can he look at Ignis without being reminded of his cloying patriotism, his unshakable faith in the royal line, laughable and rage-inducing at the same time? He wants to break him, bend his bones until they snap, having him moaning and bleeding on the floor, no one but Ardyn to tend to his wounds. He wants to make him beg for Ardyn’s mercy, and also cut out his tongue, and also he doesn’t care about Ignis’ useless pleas, only what he can do.

He wants to fuck Ignis, or perhaps rape him — only, what does it matter either way? Ignis is squirming and helpless beneath him regardless. He fantasises about Ignis naked and crawling at his feet, and also Ignis in bed, whimpering as Ardyn fucks him slowly. He wants to slit Ignis’ throat and fuck down his windpipe as he bleeds to death, or cut a hole through his ribcage so he can come in his body cavity, over his lungs and heart. Ignis’ body, anywhichway. It doesn’t really matter.

He wants Ignis to succeed in solving the prophecy, securing its conclusion, guarantee Ardyn and Noctis’ deaths. He wants it so desperately he cannot stand it. He imagines Ignis triumphant, and himself triumphant, though this is a less literal, reproducible fantasy than his others.

Eventually, Ardyn gets bored of imagining and goes to look for Ignis. He isn’t in his usual haunts, which leads to Ardyn starting to wonder, anger stirring up within him, if he’s left. He’d meant to stay. He wasn’t allowed to leave—

He finds him, thankfully, before he can get too angry. Ignis is outside of the Citadel, raiding the kitchens of a nasty hovel of a restaurant, tossing whatever cans and jars he can find into the armiger.

If only he knew what some of the extinct members of his precious monarchy thought about him using the sacred Royal Armiger as a glorified pantry. They would execute him on the spot.

Now he’s found Ignis, Ardyn contents himself with merely watching. He needs to let himself calm down, and it’s nice to see Ignis, working away, even if he’s sneaking a side-job while on the clock. He’s working methodologically, if without discrimination. Salt, spices, packets of dried chillies, all heaped into the armiger. There’s the smell of food, rich and spicy, aromatic, betraying the fact that he’d already taken advantage of the supplies. Ardyn doesn’t need to eat, and often doesn’t. He wants to now, though he’s not entirely sure it’s Ignis’ cooking he wants to sink his teeth into, or Ignis himself.

What would it be like to pin Ignis down and tear into his flesh? With his teeth, a beast lacking the ability for empathy and kindness, or even an understanding that other things are aware as it is, as it eats its prey alive. Or with a knife, carving out morsels of living flesh, a high-end chef for patrons with exquisite, expensive tastes. He imagines both scenarios while watching Ignis check the bags of sugar and flour before adding them to the armiger. A little bit of flesh wouldn’t be missed, depending on its location. If he skimmed the surface off his lower back, perhaps, just an inch or so deep. It should heal well enough, or at least well enough to not cause any real functional damage.

The thought of Ignis leaving stops him. It makes him angry, just thinking about it, and that will make him rash. He needs to step more carefully than normal. He can’t break the game pieces before he knows they’re not necessary to win.

He’s so close; wrapped up in magic, Ignis can’t tell he’s there, even when Ardyn could reach out and touch him.

He wants to, so he does. Just a hand on Ignis’ head, slipping down to his neck as Ignis jerks away.

‘Taking a break?’ he asks with a smile, and Ignis takes a step back like he’s about to flee. There’s nowhere to go except the old walk-in freezer, now full of dessicated meats and dust — Ardyn’s blocking the only exit with his body, and he suspects Ignis isn’t going to want to go near him now.

He’s right. Ignis clearly wishes to retreat, but even with Ardyn leaning against the wall, relaxed and weaponless, Ignis acts like he’s facing down a red giant. It’s pleasing, flattering Ardyn’s sense of propriety. It makes him feel, ridiculously, fond. That doesn’t do anything to sooth his desire for food.

‘Don’t tell me you’re suffering dereliction in your duties. Or have you everything finished already?’

Ignis doesn’t reply, so Ardyn tries a different tact. He is animal-hungry, he decides.

‘Do they know you’re here, all alone?’

‘Alas, I’m sure the Insomnian brands gave me away,’ Ignis says back, still looking for a way out.

‘So really,’ Ardyn says, as he steps closer, and Ignis pulls out his knives, ‘you’d be disappointing them if nothing terrible happens.’

‘I’d prefer to pleasantly surprise them.’ Before he’s even done speaking Ignis takes the first strike, and manages to slice open Ardyn’s neck. It’s quick, vicious, and delightful — Ignis is a wildcat, caught in a trapper’s cage, claws and teeth out to fight even though its painful, messy fate is already long sealed. Or, more accurately perhaps, he’s a feral chocobo, roped and ready to be broken in. Ridden for its master’s pleasure, leisurely — or to the ground, ruined, sold on for cheap or taken out back and destroyed.

It’s easy to use his weight, the size of the kitchen, and the utter ineffectiveness of Ignis’ knifes on him to work Ignis into a corner and then pin him against the wall. Ignis struggles, almost well enough to work free, but Ardyn gets his wrists in one hand, holds him to the wall with his body, and punches him in the gut. He does it fast and hard as he can, which is very much so, over and over until Ignis has the fight beaten out of him, and then strikes him a few times in the face for good measure.

Ignis slides to the floor, limp, and Ardyn kicks him in the head and neck, stamping down with his full weight. He feels something crack under his heel; it might be Ignis’ spine.

Oh dear. He hadn’t meant to get carried away, and he’s not even very angry. Or perhaps he is. He’s hungry. He wants Ignis. He crouches down, healing Ignis with his hand pressed heavy between his shoulders, and doesn’t move away once finished.

Ignis continues to lie there, pinned to the floor. His face is turned away from Ardyn, so Ardyn grasps him roughly by the chin and turns him. Ignis twists to get on his feet, so fast he takes Ardyn by surprise, and impales Ardyn on his polearm. The blade of it sinks into the floor, and now Ardyn is the pinned one, a speared fish.

Ardyn laughs, out of surprise more than anything, the sound escaping him as a sharp bark. He wonders if he’s angry or not that Ignis is fighting back. He’d pull himself off the polearm for the dramatic effect, except it’s angled upwards, and sunk quite deeply into the floor. He disappears it back into the armiger — his armiger — and lets the blood pouring out of him go black and scourge-tainted.

Ignis’ panic is thrilling. Still, he should be working for Ardyn, working on completing the prophecy, rather than slaving gathering food away for the miserable leftovers of humanity. Ardyn wants to drag him back to the Citadel, chain him up, and punish him.

In the few moments it takes to unpin himself, Ignis had ran. Ardyn follows him, easy given his command of time, and decides to let Ignis wear himself out. A daemon attack would ruin things, so Ardyn drives them away, but that only highlights the fact that Ignis shouldn’t be outside the Citadel in the first place. He should be back inside, working on properly achieving Ardyn’s death. He should be working _with_ Ardyn, not whatever this is.

It’s several hours before Ignis comes to a halt, leaning hard against the dirty glass window of the cafe he stopped outside. Ardyn suspects he’d be able to go much further had he not just been messily broken then healed. As it is, several hours is disappointing as a display of Ignis’ capabilities, but mollifying in that at least Ardyn gets to play with him now.

Not mollifying enough. Ardyn realises he really is angry — hatefully furious — and Ignis deserves the brunt of it for his slacking. He drags Ignis by the throat back into the Citadel, taking him to the throne room, where he takes Ignis’ idea with the polearm and stabs him through the wrist with a thin dagger. The floor being tile and stone, he needs to use a little magic to get it to sink in and stick, but he has plenty of that; it doesn’t take much effort to get Ignis on the floor with his arms and legs outstretched, daggers like tentpegs holding him in place, even with Ignis’ incessant squirming.

He kisses Ignis roughly on the mouth, then cuts away his clothes, pulling the scraps from him and tossing them away. Ignis’ body is thinner than expected, given the sheer amount of available food here, but oh well. Ardyn can feed him up later, bring back some of that muscle mass he’d lost. This anger is more abstract than his usual rage, and that’s a good thing. He’ll be able to control himself, rather than simply rage and destroy.

Leaning forward with one hand on Ignis’ belly, holding him in place better, Ardyn sits on Ignis’ hips and draws out a smaller knife. ‘Oh dear,’ he says as he slices a deep Y on Ignis’ chest, tips at each shoulder, meeting at the top of his sternum, the tail ending at his sternum’s base. ‘You made me angry. Perhaps next time you’ll think twice before slacking off on the job, hm?’

There isn’t much flesh to cut — over his chest, it goes straight to bone. Despite all the centuries he’s lived this is a first, so Ardyn maps out the extent of Ignis’ sternum with his fingers, trying to press down and feel where the cartilage tips to the ribs connect to it. It’s not clear; he’ll just have to make do with guesswork. He takes a larger, serrated knife and jams it into Ignis’ chest, just below and to the side of the dip where the collarbones meet. It cuts through the cartilage, and Ardyn starts sawing, slicing a rough circle around Ignis’ sternum so he can lift it free from its centre-stage place in Ignis’ chest. The sternum is the stain-glass window in a ribcage cathedral; it’s the clasp that holds the covers of a locked ribcage book together and closed. If he cuts it out he has entrance to everything inside.

Ignis thrashes and screams, but he’s weak, already going into shock. Ardyn is attempting to be careful and not slice too deep and pierce anything important, but there’s a lot of blood, and Ignis’ thrashing doesn’t help. Well — it’s his own fault.

It’s a little fiddly, but he heals Ignis’ flesh along the cuts he makes, at least enough to stop him bleeding to death. He can see lots of red inside Ignis, wet and ragged, and occasionally the the red-white colour of Ignis’ ribs. Under them he can make out the brilliant, fleshy red of Ignis’ lungs.

He hums as he works, though he isn’t sure Ignis can hear him over the wailing he’s making. His knife gets stuck and he has to yank it free, so he pats Ignis on the cheek with a bloodied hand, hushing him. Ignis’ eyes are wide and terrified, his skin pale and sweat-slicked, and mouth open to pant. It’s an excellent look on him, and Ardyn tells him as much.

‘If only you’d been good instead of distracted from your work,’ he says as he pulls up Ignis’ sternum, having sliced around it most of the way, and saws at the last few bits of cartilage holding it in place. Ignis’ ribs are detached in the middle, now, no longer connecting, unable to function. It seems to be fairly seriously impairing his breathing; Ardyn tosses the sternum to one side and leans back to inspect his work, enjoying the cruelty of his pleasure from the way Ignis chokes and gags.

‘What would our dear Noctis say?’

There’s a rough-cut window into Ignis’ chest, showing off his soft, wet organs. They’re wrapped in a membrane of some sort, so Ardyn slices that away too, though its thin and he loses it in the mess of Ignis’ body cavity. He has access to Ignis’ body in the literal sense, after not a small amount of work, so he takes advantage of it and reaches inside Ignis’ chest to cup his franticly beating heart in one hand. His fingers tangle in the various arteries and veins, and Ardyn imagines himself yanking hard, pulling it all out like a clog of hair in the drain.

It would be an effort to put Ignis back together after that, so he doesn’t, even though his anger wants him to. Ignis is dying anyway, but for now it’s easy to push a little life back into him, stem the bleeding somewhat, and prolong his suffering.

He pinches Ignis’ heart and squeezes his lungs, pushes his hand in deep until he gets to Ignis’ spine and raps his knuckles against it. He runs his fingers up and down to count the number of ribs where they branch off at the back, and then leans down to push his hand up, see how far he can get it up Ignis’ neck.

There’s flesh and various stringy things in the way. He shoves them aside or snaps them, working his hand in until he’s got his fingers up in Ignis’ neck, tight alongside the ridged length of his windpipe and smoother oesophagus. The muscles constrict around his hand, fluttering. He tries to shove his whole fist up there, but before he gets far he catches an artery or other blood vessel, tearing it. Blood pours into Ignis’ chest cavity, pooling around his heart and lungs and quickly spilling over; Ardyn withdraws his hand and heal the tear before Ignis can hemorrhage to death.

He places his elbows on the floor either side of Ignis’ face, leaning forwards until his coat lapels drape into Ignis’ chest, and they’re face to face. Ignis’ lips have gone blue, and he’s not responding as much as he had been. His eyes refuse to meet Ardyn’s. That’s annoying. Ardyn forces some more life back into him, and then, as Ignis visibly starts struggling to breathe again, bends his head and presses his mouth to Ignis’, pinching Ignis’ nose. If he puts his free hand in Ignis’ chest he can feel Ignis’ lungs inflate as he breathes for him, pumping him full of his own breath.

Ardyn lifts his head a fraction, kissing the side of Ignis’ mouth delicately. ‘Anything you’d like to say?’ he asks, and enjoys how Ignis can’t so much as cry, let alone speak. He waits until he catches Ignis’ eyes before continuing. ‘If you apologise properly, we can finish up now.’

Of course, Ignis can’t, but Ardyn gives him a long moment to anyway. He kisses Ignis again, gives him another breath, then sits up. ‘I must say, that’s too bad,’ he says as he slices down Ignis’ belly, from the gaping hole in his chest down to his pubic mound. ‘An apology would have been so much easier for both of us.’

Now Ignis is partially open he doesn’t have to be so careful about puncturing internal organs. He lifts the flesh of Ignis’ belly up with one hand and slices with the other, while Ignis twitches and gurgles.

A single cut isn’t enough. Ardyn slices along above Ignis’ pelvis as well, making flaps in his abdomen he can open up like shutters, which he does, and lies himself down in the wet cradle of Ignis’ body. He shifts, adjusting himself so their faces are level, and leans down to breathe for Ignis some more.

With one hand tangled in Ignis’ hair, the other pushes down and undoes his trousers — harder than usual, with the fabric completely soaked in blood — to pull out his cock. He moves forwards, up Ignis’ body, so that his cock dips into the coiled mess of Ignis’ guts, pressing into the smooth bulk of his liver. He cradles Ignis’ head in his arms and keeps him alive with magic as he rubs himself off in Ignis’ hot, wet insides, slippery, the loops of intestine making sloppy, obscene sounds as he fucks into them. Ignis’ ribcage is mostly gaping open already, but he puts a hand on each edge and heaves them apart further, snapping them off at the spine. Ignis opens up for him, obedient and willing.

At some point, without him realising, Ardyn’s anger had dried up. He inspects the loss, and finds that all that’s left is a genial pleasure for having reduced Ignis to this, and a satiated feeling. He feels calm, sure-footed, and heavily aroused. Ignis’ loyalty isn’t suspect; he won’t flee, either his duty or Ardyn and the Citadel. He’ll work for Ardyn, and he’ll help ensure Ardyn succeeds. Also, Ignis’ wet, hot body feels unbearably good against his cock. His hips jerk roughly and pleasure rolls through him, building in pressure and strength, a beutific coiled spring.

Absurdly, the fondness is back. He likes Ignis, he decides. It’s rare anyone has the ability to soothe his anger, and Ignis has several other things going for him besides. He likes raping Ignis, and keeping him, and knowing they’re working together as one. The arousal is molten gold in his belly — it grows, and too soon he’s overwhelmed by it: its breathtaking heat, the power of it inside him compelling him to keep moving, keep fucking, keep feeling such indescribable pleasure. His hands are fisted in Ignis’ hair, and he’s groaning, thrusting hard and deep, insensible as he chases that summit so he can topple over the edge—

He comes with a shout, deep inside Ignis. Bowing his head, trying to catch his breath, he surrenders to the electric frissons of pleasure, the glow of aftermath that inhabits him surely as he’s inhabiting Ignis. His come is inside Ignis’ body, and though the amount of blood and other internal fluids obscures it, it’s undeniable. He’s already seeping into Ignis’ deep tissues on a cellular level. Panting, Ardyn waits through the afterglow of his orgasm, not wanting to end it prematurely; he pets Ignis’ hair, pressing feather-light kisses to his face. When he does sit up he tucks himself back into his bloodstained trousers, feeling pleasantly tired. Ready to die.

It’s not the Ring of Lucis, but it is Ardyn’s; Ardyn slips off one of his rings, shows it to Ignis, and places it in Ignis’ chest, beside his heart. He leans over to grab his sternum and rests it back in place, and then squeezes Ignis’ ribs back around its ragged edges. It takes some concentration — the last thing he wants is to ruin Ignis permanently — but he heals his chest back up, with not even a scar for proof.

Ignis takes a deep, shuddering breath, then another, and another. His breaths sounded like moans, too weak to even sob, sweet and earnest, and Ardyn paused in tucking his intestines back in from where they’d spilled out. He wants to savour this: a moment of Ignis without his mask on, without pretense. There’s no falsehoods here. Ignis simply is, soft and innocent and real.

Ardyn strokes his side, down his hip, feeling almost adoring. Ignis is going cold, blood-soaked, sticky. They both need a bath. He folds Ignis’ organs more or less back where they came from, replaces the flaps of abdominal muscle he’d cut through, and heals Ignis back to health.

‘There now,’ he says, then realises as soon as he’s done healing that he’d left the daggers in his wrists and ankles in. Instead of pulling them from the floor he dismisses them to the armiger, still dirty, and gets off Ignis’ hips to kneel by his side and heal the remaining wounds. ‘All better.’ 

Ignis curls up and doesn’t respond, though he does tremble and gasp when Ardyn touches him again, petting his exposed skin wherever he can reach: waist and flank, hip and thigh, belly, back, chest.

Ardyn hushes him when he starts to cry, and picks him up, one arm supporting his curled back, the other under his knees. Ignis struggles, but not so much as to actually get free; Ardyn takes him to Regis’ old rooms and deposits him in one of the spare bedrooms. There’s no running water in the Citadel, of course, but he undoubtedly has water in his armiger, so Ardyn’s confident he’ll clean himself up.

He leaves Ignis on the bed, pressing one hand to his chest over his heart, then goes to wash himself, for once feeling pleased and good about things.


	3. Chapter 3

It’s hard not to feel a little pity for Ignis, and besides, Ardyn’s anger is calmer these days. He doesn’t feel the urge to damage Ignis so much, and the daemons are quieter. He’s getting ready to hatch.

Ignis has stopped resisting, too, so Ardyn rapes him regularly, mostly in Regis’ old bed. He’s tender a lot of the time, since there’s no need for violence: using lubrication, going slowly so it doesn’t hurt, or at least not as much as it could do. Ignis takes to talking, asking Ardyn directly, having exhausted the papers and documents and art in his search for information. His dedication to fulfilling the prophecy is excellent.

Now Ardyn feels mellow, generous, even chivalrous. ‘I was a prince,’ he tells Ignis. ‘The crown prince. I was given the power to heal by the gods.’

So very long ago, back in another lifetime. Ignis groans as Ardyn thrusts into him, and clutches at Ardyn’s arm looped possessively around his chest. ‘What I do to you, therefore,’ Ardyn says, ‘is divine.’

Ignis’ other hand scratches at his own chest, leaving red lines like a supplicant’s whip-marks. Ardyn is fairly sure he can’t actually feel the ring; it’s satisfying to know that at least he remembers it.

Sometimes he’s less tender, especially when he catches Ignis not at work — sleeping, or raiding food and medical and even cleaning supplies. He knows he can do whatever he likes to Ignis, exhaust his rages and frustrations on him, and not have to worry about Ignis leaving. Ignis’ loyalty is boundless. It’s like being adored, to inspire that kind of loyalty. He wants to soak it up, take it and keep it. He chokes Ignis unconscious every night for a week and still Ignis stays with him, lets him, hands over his helpless body, to which Ardyn can do whatever he wants. Just so, in the end, he can help Ardyn finally die. It’s intoxicating.

It almost makes him regret that his time is almost up. Soon he’ll be a mayfly, and soon he’ll be dead. If only he’d found Ignis earlier. Much earlier — he’s sure he could have contrived a way to keep him alive permanently, over the centuries. Still, he doesn’t regret, and finds even that Ignis’ presence is making his last days more tolerable. He looks forward to death, to Noctis’ death, even more than he had.

It’s true, too, that as much as he punishes Ignis for not making progress and not working, if he’s truthful with himself, he knows there is no progress to be made. What’s done is done; either Noctis will emerge from the Crystal with the power to kill him, or he won’t. But that powerless sends him into an incandescent rage, so he tries not to be truthful to himself. He can still change things, and therefore so can Ignis.

Ignis asks what happened to him as he’s panting, kneeling between Ardyn’s legs as Ardyn sits on the throne. His lips and cheek are still splattered with come, and he rests his head on Ardyn’s thigh.

‘I was usurped,’ Ardyn says, and runs his hands through Ignis’ hair. In the aftermath of orgasm, he’s more inclined to be kind. He wonders if Ignis knows it, or if he thinks that it’s by getting Ardyn talking he can avoid being hurt. Either way, he doesn’t mind. He knows Ignis is aware of Lucian history, if not this particular, sordid part of it. Ignis is, therefore, a better audience than most, whose understanding of his story would be contextless. And Ignis, too, through Noctis, knows the pain of a lost kingdom.

That, of course, was caused by Ardyn rather than being Ardyn’s loss — it’s amusingly ironic, and Ardyn pets Ignis genially. He’s feeling indulgent, and so tells Ignis the whole story, or at least as much of it that he can bother to.

He’s aware, just about, of when Noctis will emerge from the crystal, breaking out of his cocoon having transformed into the King of Light. He will probably have to send Ignis back soon, to be there in time for his return, to prepare whatever needs preparing. He’s certainly spent long enough studying the damn prophecy.

Poor Ignis will be heartbroken when he realises it’s all so his beloved Noctis can die. Will die. Ardyn hopes that Ignis doesn’t find out until after Noctis is dead, and all his happy-ever-afters come crashing down at once, when it’s far too late to do anything about it. Though, if Noctis tells him beforehand, there’s a good chance Ardyn will get to see him again, and see that heartbreak for himself.

He’s in a good mood. How long until it all ends?

‘I’m infected,’ Ardyn tells Ignis. He traces Ignis’ face with his fingertips. ‘Within my very spirit. It’s keeping me alive.’

‘Keeping you alive?’

‘Do you know what the difference is between humans and the gods?’

Ignis doesn’t respond. There are obvious answers, but perhaps he’s just shy of saying the wrong thing.

‘The gods are immortal,’ Ardyn says. ‘In every other way, they are as humans.’

They’re lying in bed, naked, Ignis tucked up against Ardyn’s chest. Ignis doesn’t respond, though he does press and rub at his chest. His heart rate is still elevated; Ardyn can feel it. A short while ago Ignis had panicked at nothing, as he’s sometimes prone to do now, and Ardyn had pinned him to the bed and fucked him through it.

‘I am in part immortal, because the disease in me cannot die. It must be purified first,’ Ardyn says. ‘The gods cannot stand anyone being too much like them.’

It’s why Noctis must die, too. By the time he gains the power of the Crystal, as the gods dictate he must — because that is the only way to purify and destroy Ardyn — he, too will be too divine. And he, too, will be punished by the gods for it.

And that is what poor, sweet Ignis is fighting for. Ardyn can’t help but wonder what will happen to the gods after all this is over. He hopes the next time they fuck up they end up wiping out all of humanity, and then themselves. He won’t be there to see it happen, but it’s nice to imagine.

Imagining it makes him feel more awake, more active. He wants to do something, and Ignis is a convenient target.

Well, Noctis is returning soon. Ardyn needs to let Ignis go at some point, to do what preparations he needs; this might as well be his farewell gift to the both of them.

Noctis will have aged within the Crystal. The family resemblance is strong, a couple of hundred generations removed, which is yet another joke of the gods. It does, however, mean that Ardyn can reasonably predict his appearance. Better than anyone, perhaps.

He makes himself become like Noctis, and already Ignis is going rigid in his arms. He’s facing away, he can’t have seen Ardyn’s appearance, but perhaps he knows the shape of Noctis through touch alone. Or perhaps he’s just sensitive to the sudden brush of magic and change of form.

‘Hey, Ignis,’ Ardyn says, and Ignis is struggling to get away before Ardyn finishes speaking. ‘Not even going to say hi, after nine years?’

‘Ardyn,’ Ignis says, and he sounds more upset than he has from almost anything. If Ardyn had known it would affect him this badly, he would have done it sooner.

‘What’s wrong?’ Ardyn tugs Ignis onto his back and sits on top of his hips, pinning his wrists with his hands. ‘Aren’t you happy to see me?’

Ignis closes his eyes, and Ardyn backhands him. Ignis shoves at him, and Ardyn rolls him onto his front, takes a knife, and rams it into his spine, just below the base of his neck.

Abruptly, Ignis stops struggling. Ardyn heals up enough of the wound that he won’t bleed to death, and then returns Ignis to his back. ‘There,’ he says, ‘much better, don’t you agree?’

He’s not sure if Ignis can speak any more — he’s just making a tragic moaning sound. ‘Look at me,’ Ardyn says, ‘or I won’t heal you.’

It takes a few seconds, but Ignis looks up at him. His eyes track over Ardyn’s body, and he starts crying. He’s cried before, from pain. He cries regularly, in fact, but Ardyn indulges himself in thinking this time it’s because of his little trick with Noctis’ body. ‘Specs,’ he says, taking Ignis’ hand and bringing it up to his lips, ‘what’s wrong?’

Ardyn lets Ignis’s hand drop back to the mattress with a dull thump, and gets up. He could use a proper weapon, but he wants it to be more intimate than that, for this. In Regis’ study he finds a heavy metal paperweight, plain save a fish etched on the top of it, and he weights it in his hand for a moment. Good enough. He also takes a pair of scissors, slipping them into his armiger.

He climbs on top of Ignis and breaks his nose with the paperweight, smashing it thoroughly. He holds Ignis’ jaw open with one hand and breaks all his teeth with steady knocks from the paperweight, pulling back Ignis’ cheeks to do the side ones. Ignis screams and gags on the blood and splinters in his throat, and when all of his teeth — at least, all the ones Ardyn can reach — are broken stumps, Ardyn drops the paperweight and reaches into Ignis’ mouth to yank out what’s loose. Eventually, getting frustrated by Ignis coughing and biting down on his hands while he works, he grips Ignis’ chin in one hand and his face in the other, thumbs tucked into his mouth, and dislocates his jaw.

‘Stop struggling,’ he says, and tilts Ignis’ head to one side so the gunk can drain from his mouth. Ignis is still coughing, though, and won’t stop. Maybe a shard of tooth is stuck in his throat or lungs. ‘I’m just trying to help.’

There’s only so much he can do, though, and any enjoyment Arydn is getting from Ignis’ mouth is diminishing returns; he could take Ignis’ eyes out, but then Ignis wouldn’t be able to see him at all, which would defeat a significant part of the point of this. He dries Ignis’ eyes, which continue to water, and then moves to sit by Ignis’ side.

Ignis’ skin parts neatly, from neck to groin, when Ardyn slices it open. From the cut, Ardyn uses Regis’ scissors to peel away at Ignis’ skin, in parts snipping at the flesh beneath, and in others tearing at it with his hands.

Blood wells up immediately wherever Ardyn removes skin; when he wipes it away the flesh below is pink and rough-textured. Ignis moans and sobs, but his body is limp and perfectly pliant.

Ardyn takes off most of the skin of Ignis’ chest, chatting amiably as he works, since Ignis can’t see particularly well currently and will have to make do with Noctis’ voice. Ignis screams, so Ardyn silences him, because there’s no point in this if Ignis can’t even hear him. Skinning a human takes time and effort, apparently; it’s harder than skinning a rabbit or a fox, where the skin can be peeled off in one big sheet. Ardyn patiently saws away at Ignis’ skin piece by piece, snipping it away from the flesh, occasionally getting bored and tearing it off in ragged chunks. Then Ardyn moves to Ignis’ arm, beginning at the shoulder and working down. Just below the elbow he slices a neat line around Ignis’ arm, and with the scissors burrowing down beneath the skin, detaching it, he manages to roll it down, a glove he’s carefully removing. Ignis’ hand sits neatly in his lap while he works. By the time he gets to Ignis’ hand he can grip the skin and yank, tear it off each of Ignis’ fingers.

There isn’t any flesh on parts of his fingers and wrists — with the skin gone, Ardyn has immediate access to the pale tendons and bones. He plays with them a little, tugging at each to make Ignis’ fingers curl, and seeing how far they’ll go before they snap. They don’t snap, only get detached from bone.

It’s nice to have Ignis quiet and pliant and helpless, but it’s also a little boring. Ardyn can’t be bothered to do Ignis’ other hand, so he kisses the raw flesh of his palm, getting a hand-print on his face, releases the silence on him, and then moves on to raping Ignis one last time.

He lifts Ignis’ leg by the back of one knee, and gets out some lube to squirt on his cock and also across Ignis’ balls and hole. ‘Ready, Specs?’ he asks, though it’s not like Ignis can object. All he does is wheeze and choke and cry out, and the lack of screaming is definitely a benefit. Perhaps he’s too tired by now. ‘Hey,’ he says, as he pushes his cock into Ignis. If he could feel pain like mortals do he thinks it would probably be awful, far too tight and dry, but as it is it’s mostly just pleasure. Ignis, on the other hand, sobs harder. ‘Hey. I love you, Ignis.’

‘Remember when you used to teach me,’ he says as he bottoms out. ‘And I’d get so grumpy about it because I wanted to play? And remember when I used to whine so much you gave up and we snuck out—’

‘Ardyn,’ Ignis says, and while it’s very nice to have Ignis say his name like this, it’s not what Ardyn wants.

He leans forwards and grabs Ignis by the upper arms, bending him at the hips to keep himself deep inside Ignis. Ignis’ skinless arm is sopping wet, hot, and slimy, and he cries out at the touch, though really it can’t be much worse than simply resting his arm on the bed. His body flops around like it’s already dead.

‘I’m not Ardyn,’ he says, firmly, and squeezes Ignis’ arms tighter. ‘Say my name. Now.’

‘Ardyn—’ Ignis gasps.

‘ _I’m not fucking Ardyn,_ Ardyn roars, and backhands Ignis, hard enough to send a couple of extra teeth flying. Ignis’ lower face is a mask of blood and saliva, and he can’t seem to right his head now it’s pressed sideways on the mattress. Ardyn punches him in the chest, creating a blood-splatter. ‘Say my name. _Say it._ ’

‘Noct,’ Ignis says, and sobs. ‘Noct, please—’

In reward, Ardyn lays a sheet of magic through Ignis, casting it over his body like a death shroud, and it takes away some of Ignis’ pain. He rights Ignis’ head so he’s looking up at Ardyn, and then rocks his hips. His cock slips out then into Ignis, and he sets up a steady rhythm. ‘There,’ he says. ‘Knew you could do it.’

Ignis doesn’t reply, but Ardyn supposes he should be satisfied with what he got. He hadn’t been entirely sure he could get Ignis to call him Noctis at all, after all, so anything else is a bonus. He fucks Ignis and lets himself enjoy the moment — the hot pleasure curling through him, the simple, primal arousal. He enjoys raping Ignis, he realises again and again. He can’t seem to get enough of this tight, warm body beneath him, being impaled by him, ready to be opened up and used and disposed of as Ardyn sees fit. It’s pleasure on a base level, uncomplicated and honest.

But alas, all good things come to an end. Ardyn is coming to an end; he can taste his own death, and his body getting ready to evolve up from this squalid, lake-mud thing he currently is.

He knows that while Noctis, the King of Light, is the ultimate key to his and the Lucis Caelums’ deaths, there are other important cogs in the machine. The King’s ever-faithful retainers. Ardyn hasn’t the slightest clue what, exactly, they can do, but he knows the gods make a mockery of rationality and common sense.

If Noctis is the power that allows Ardyn to finally hatch, then perhaps Ignis is the twig on which Ardyn can climb up out of the water, that will support him as he hatches.

Ignis is whorish and disgusting. He’s spread his legs every time Ardyn tells him to, gagging for cock. He’s a greedy slut, and Ardyn tells him so in Noct’s voice, breathing hard as his arousal creeps ever and ever higher.

Ignis is nothing but a hole for others to rut into. He’s ripe and ready for the taking, for consuming, and he begs to be abused in everything he does. He’s worth only to be used for other people’s pleasure. He deserves everything that happens to him, and will happen to him, because he’s never going to be anything more than this.

Ardyn’s orgasm spills over, hard and fast, and Ardyn can barely control himself as he grips Ignis’ hips and fucks into him, bending him almost in half as he comes, sloppy and wet. He’s seized with a fierce, terrible joy, radiant — divine. He is nearing the end of his life. The void stretches out in front of him, and he wants it so desperately, and now he can have it. He can finally have it.

After his orgasn has left him tired and aching, body feeling heavy, if pleasantly so, Ardyn gets up, cloaks himself from view, and sets a slow spell of healing on Ignis. It will take a few hours to run to completion, though Ardyn can already see it start: Ignis’ skin growing back, fresh and tender along the torn edges. It will heal his teeth and realign his jaw, healing where the ligaments and tendons have torn and swollen. It will carefully reattach the nerves that Ardyn severed in Ignis’ spine, as well as heal up the supporting vertebrae where they shattered.

It won’t replenish the blood, so he will be weak, and it won’t let him forget his king’s voice, or his king’s body, torturing and raping him.

Ardyn sits beside the bed and waits as Ignis’ body mends. Ignis makes small noises, pitiful whimpers and sighs as he attempts to move but cannot. His spine takes the longest to fix; even after all his skin is grown back and his teeth replenished, all he can do is shuffle his legs and paw weakly at the sheets. Eventually he manages to twist and turn over, but the effort leaves him panting in agony, shaking, and unable to do anything but fall back, supine and helpless. If a daemon came in now he’d stand no chance at all. If it were a coeurl, starving from lack of prey, it could pin him, shoulders and hips with its huge paws, and eat the flesh from him, tearing it off in wet slabs as he cried and squirmed.

Ardyn sits still, silent, and eventually Ignis manages to shuffle to the edge of the bed and get to his feet, shaky, holding out his hands as if frightened he’s going to fall. The blood-soaked sheets have left his skin pink and tacky, dried on and disgusting. Presumably Ignis is going to wash; Ardyn follows him, still cloaked, invisible and silent, and watches Ignis bathe in a bucket of cold water, too impatient to even get it warm. He touches the back of his neck now, as well as his chest, over his heart, and his hands are weak and inefficient at scrubbing the filth from him.

Come is probably leaking from his plump, abused hole, though it’s not possible for Ardyn to check, given Ignis is standing with his back to the wall. Ardyn lets himself believe it is, and that makes him happy to imagine. Thick and sloppy, showing off Ignis for the greedy, filthy little slut he is.

Over the next week Ardyn keeps himself hidden. Sometimes he watches Ignis look for him, and indulges in the pleasure of that. Other times he tucks himself away where he knows Ignis cannot reach, and simply waits.

Ignis leaves. He goes back through Insomnia and spends a day collecting foods and medical supplies, then leaves for Hammerhead. Ardyn watches him go, keeping the more powerful daemons away from him, and feels the ecstasy of time creep forward, towards his death.


	4. Chapter 4

Ardyn knows he has to die physically before the Scourge can be burnt out of his poor, beleaguered soul, and he is put down permanently. He makes Noctis fight for it, but doesn’t feel badly when inevitably he loses. He is already too joyful to feel anything else. His skin has cracked open and his mayfly is ready to take flight.

He’d been right about Noctis’ family resemblance. Ten years older, Noctis looks despicably like Somnus did. If Ardyn were not so ready to die then he would regret not being able to take pleasure in hurting Noctis more, just to see his face in pain. He wishes he could see Ignis again, but at least he knows he hurt him badly, while Ignis laboured selflessly for him.

As it is, he’s ready. He’s been ready for an incredibly long time, and he feels as beatific as he had done, all those years ago, when he’d been sacred and beloved. Importantly, he’s also ready to take Noctis with him, and deprive Ignis and everyone else who loved him of their King of Light.

When his physical form is broken and dead, and his soul is ready to be purified and destroyed, he waits for Noctis. But when Noctis does arrive, he’s got an animal on his shoulder, and a dog at his heels.

‘What’s this?’ Ardyn says, and the sneer in his voice is hiding the sudden spike of fear that runs through him, floodwater. What is Noctis doing? He needs this to go right. He can’t afford not to die here.

‘Don’t worry,’ Noctis says. ‘They will not interfere with your death.’

Ardyn hates to be soothed by the one he despises most, but he is regardless. Noctis sounds tired but honest, and Ardyn cannot sense anything but dreary forgiveness in him.

‘Then what are they for?’ he asks, because he thinks he recognises the souls of divine Messengers in them, and he wants them gone. He wants nothing at all to do with the Astrals now.

Noctis looks at him, and there’s a sad kind of pity in his eyes. ‘Carbuncle guards my spirit, and brought me here,’ he says.

‘And the other?’

‘Umbra guides me, and will take me back.’

‘So you’ll live,’ Ardyn says, and fury and grief consumes him, the utmost betrayal breaking him. Noctis was meant to die with him. The prophecy had said so; Ardyn was meant to outlive all of the those who usurped him.

‘I’m sorry,’ Noctis says, and his truthfulness is agony. ‘I wouldn’t have told you, but I didn’t want to lie, either.’

Ardyn lunges for Noctis, even though it’s useless. He is betrayed once again; his perfect, fragile mayfly is ruined by the deceit of others that happens over and over and over again. How?

He thinks, suddenly, of Ignis, and all the things he told him and the ways he might have helped him plot this betrayal, and his heart breaks—

or perhaps it’s the purification of the disease that’s shattering him, and his soul burning up, and there is nothing at all left in the void except betrayal— 

and then there’s nothing.


End file.
